


Rack 'Em

by veronamay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean in Denial, M/M, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pool Table Sex, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-25
Updated: 2006-08-25
Packaged: 2018-01-12 16:00:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1191084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All he had to do was keep busy and avoid staring at Sam like a starving man looking at a rib eye steak.  Easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rack 'Em

Dean hated downtime.

A day or two between jobs – that was good; he understood the importance of getting some distance now and then. Dad always called it shore leave, even thirty years after leaving the Marines, and he'd drilled into both of his sons the logic of being rested in order to do their jobs. Dean was more than willing to kick back when he got the chance; enjoy a few beers, look for a little companionship if the mood struck him. All work and no play made Dean a – well, no, not a _dull_ boy, that was impossible - but definitely a pissy one.

But downtime, that was a whole different situation. Downtime was the dreaded lull between jobs that lasted upward of a week, when they ran low on credit and had to stay in one place, get day jobs to replenish their supplies. It didn't happen often, maybe twice a year, but Dean remembered each and every occasion as collectively the most boring times of his life. Nothing interesting to do, nowhere to go, no way to deflect the things that filled his mind when he had nothing else to focus on. Nothing but mind-numbing manual labour or waiting tables, maybe pulling beers in a bar if they got lucky. Every day Dean would scan as many newspapers as he could find, looking for something, anything, unusual or spooky enough to get them moving again. He thought of it as stagnating. Dean didn't like stagnation. It smelled bad after a while, and he was a progressive kind of guy anyway. Forward motion was his natural state.

Sam, on the other hand: Sam freaking _loved_ it when they were stuck in the same place for more than a couple of days. He loved renting hotel rooms by the week instead of for a night, loved being able to frequent a diner often enough to know the waitresses by their first names and have a 'usual' order. And he was way too enthusiastic about applying for normal, everyday, paying jobs instead of trying new ways to get around credit fraud laws.

Sometimes Dean wondered if they were actually related at all.

That thought, once acknowledged, always took Dean down a path he tried to deny existed, that he usually didn't have time to linger on, and he ended up pissed off and frustrated for no reason that he'd admit. And Sam would roll his eyes and flip him off and Dean would want to slam him up against a wall someplace and shake him, and then lean in and ... or maybe slide down and...

Yeah. Downtime. Downtime _sucked_.

This time they were stuck in Maine, at the tail end of the ski season, which at least meant that business was steady. They'd landed gigs in a tavern in Washburn, tending bar and waiting tables, and as the first week drew to a close Dean had to admit that at least he wasn't bored. He was way too jumpy to be bored.

Sam, in his usual outburst of enthusiasm at the thought of honest work, had been prancing around the bar all week, his face wreathed in cheery smiles and bright-eyed glances, charming ski-bunnies and fishermen alike and getting more in tips than they were being paid. Dean had even caught him _whistling_ at one point. It was beyond annoying. It was juvenile. But ... it was good to see Sam enjoying himself for once, and it was really fucking hard for Dean to tear his eyes away from the smile on his brother's face.

He didn't argue when Sam suggested they stay on for another week. He just gritted his teeth and muttered an assent, and started thinking of ways to keep his hands busy and his mind on something other than the shine in Sam's eyes.

Well. He could train during the day before his shift started. You could never get too much training, Dad said. And Dean had been meaning to brush up on his off-hand target practice anyway. He couldn't use a gun in town, but he could go into the woods out back of the motel with his knives, and nobody but Sam would be the wiser. And at night, during quiet periods at the bar – well, you could never be too good at pool, either.

It was a plan. All he had to do was keep busy and avoid staring at Sam like a starving man looking at a rib eye steak. Easy.

* * *

"Where are you going?"

Dean looked up as Sam came out of the bathroom, a blue towel around his hips, drying off his hair with another. He looked away again quickly, settling his knife scabbard along the small of his back and shrugging into his jacket.

"Thought I'd go out, get some practice in before work," he said.

"Out where?"

"Just in the woods." Dean held up a hand as Sam opened his mouth. "Don't worry, I checked. There's no hunting around here. I'm not going to get mistaken for a deer or anything."

"Okay, whatever," Sam said, and shrugged. "Let me know if you find a good spot. I could use some practice myself. I'm getting kind of twitchy."

Dean watched him rummaging through his duffel for clean clothes. Sam's skin was still dewed with moisture from the shower; his hair was wet and slicked back from his face, making him look different. Older. Dean let his eyes travel over his brother for a long moment, marking the differences between the eighteen-year-old boy he remembered and the hard edged, fully grown man in front of him. Sam wasn't a guy you wanted to mess with, he realised. He forgot how the outside world looked at Sam most of the time; his own view of his brother took up so much space he had no room left to consider how anybody else saw him. But now he looked, and saw a guy who could take care of himself, a guy with sharp eyes and a determined jaw and a hell of a lot of strength. No, you didn't want to mess with Sam. Except he did, and in the worst way. Literally and figuratively.

Okay, time to go.

"See you later," he said abruptly, and made for the door. He felt Sam's eyes on him as he left, but he didn't turn around.

* * *

Dean stayed out for as long as he could stand it, but eventually the cold drove him back inside. He shivered as the heat in the cabin hit him full blast, not realising how much the temperature had dropped. He had half an hour to warm up and get over to the bar for his shift. Sam had the early shift today; they usually traded off and then both stayed back late to close up on Friday. Dean remembered last Friday with a grimace. He'd walked around half-hard all night, as usual, and then he'd had to deal with a laid-back, loosened-up, three-beer Sam at closing time. At one point he'd faked a visit to the men's room just to keep from grabbing his brother and mauling him. Sam hadn't noticed Dean's tension; he'd just gone on being relaxed and happy, the kind of happy Dean remembered from when they were kids, before the whirlwind of puberty hit. It'd been cute to see Sam like this when he was nine. It was a whole lot different now. Now the slightly goofy grin on Sam's face didn't make Dean laugh; it made him want to taste, and touch, and do things that should make him feel sick and perverted but instead just felt ... necessary. Right. Complete.

_Jesus Christ. Could I possibly get any more Jerry Maguire?_

He grimaced again and washed up quickly, changing his t-shirt for a cleaner one and banging out of the cabin in a hurry. As he went he glanced at the sky, noticing the low-hanging cloud cover. More snow. Great. Thank God he'd already fitted the Impala's snow tyres.

The bar was only a ten-minute drive away. Dean battened down his inner hatches against another night spent watching Sam flirt and smile and charm total strangers, and decided to start timing himself at eight-ball. See if he could clear the table in less than ten minutes. Less than five, if that got too easy. He'd be too busy to look at Sam at all.

Dinnertime trade was slow; the weather was keeping people at home. Forecasters were predicting a foot of snow overnight, maybe more, and as soon as folks heard that they started clearing out like the place had plague. Dean scowled, watching half his plan of distraction pouring out the front door like their asses were on fire.

"It's just a little snow," he muttered. "What's the big deal?"

Sam was walking by with a tray full of dirty glasses; he paused and cocked an eyebrow.

"Getting snowed in," he replied. "Which we're likely to be, if we stay here any longer."

"What?" Dean went over to the window facing the parking lot and looked in horror at the Impala, slowly being coated with snow. He'd only waxed her three days ago. "Oh _man_ \- when can we get out of here?"

"Not for another hour. I called Bill; he said to close up early if everyone's gone, but we've still got the glasses and tables to do, and I have to close out the register." Sam came over to the window, standing behind Dean, his breath wafting softly over his shoulder. They stared out at the weather, snowflakes whirling down faster and thicker by the second. "Can you drive in that if it keeps up?"

"Snow tyres are on," Dean said, straightening up against the impulse to lean back against Sam's chest. "I don't have any chains."

"I don't like the look of it." Sam nudged his shoulder. "Why don't we just stay here?"

Stay here. All night, alone with Sam, and next to no chance of interruptions.

Someone upstairs really hated him.

"Fine," Dean said on a sigh. "You get the register, I'll do the glasses." He turned and headed for the kitchen, avoiding Sam's eyes. He and Sam were together every night, sure, but this felt different. They weren't the Winchester brothers here. They weren't even Sam and Dean; they'd given false names on their job applications. They could be any two guys roadtripping together, picking up jobs where they could.

It sounded ... nice. It sounded _possible_.

Dean blinked and realised he'd been staring at the trays of dirty glasses for five minutes. He shook himself and started to load the two dishwashers, listening to Sam out in the bar counting up receipts and cash. The night stretched ahead, long and cold and full of temptation.

Pool. He'd play pool. He might even challenge Sam to a game, for real. They hadn't done that in forever, and Sam wasn't half bad when he set his mind to it. Dean thought about that, Sam leaning over a table, skin glowing tan against the bright green felt, tall enough to almost sit atop it without having to hoist himself up. Long clever fingers cradling the end of a cue, judging a shot, eyes narrowed in concentration, strength held in check and then the crack of balls colliding, dropping into pockets all around the table. Sam's triumphant face grinning at him, hand held out waiting for a twenty to be slapped into it, hip thrust off to one side in a stance of victory.

Dean looked at the image in his mind and shuddered. Maybe he'd just have a beer and read Dad's journal instead.

"It's really coming down out there," Sam said when he rejoined him in the bar. They started wiping down tables and putting up chairs. Dean listened to the silence that seemed to creep in from outside. He should be worried about being stuck here, separated from their gear, at the mercy of anything that might come at them. But the only thing that worried him was the thumping of his heart when he looked at his brother, and the way his hands were shaking.

"What time is it?"

Sam checked his watch. "Almost ten."

God. Hours to go yet, and he was already in trouble.

"I'm having a beer," Dean said. He headed around the bar. "Want one?"

"Sure."

He popped the tops off two longnecks and brought one back to Sam, then drank half his own in three swallows. The minute the first blast hit his stomach he remembered he hadn't eaten anything since breakfast.

"Hey, take it easy." Sam sounded amused. Affectionate, even. "You've got all night to get through their stock."

 _Don't tempt me,_ Dean wanted to say. He didn't reply, just closed his eyes and tried not to think. The sense of Sam's presence, a low-level but always constant hum, pushed into the forefront. There was nothing paranormal about it; Dean just always knew when Sam was close by. Habit, he supposed, and instinct. And now, consciously looking for it, which was incredibly fucking girly but he couldn't help it.

He scowled and drank his beer, pushing away from the bar. Dad's journal lay on a table three feet away; he turned his back on it and headed for the pool tables. Eight-ball would keep him busy, and Sam never really wanted to play anyhow.

Sam followed him over, settling at a nearby table. Dean ignored him and racked up, broke and started sinking balls, methodically, silently, moving around the table like they were something to be hunted. He never missed a shot. In five minutes the table was clear.

"Nice," Sam said. His voice was loud after the relative silence. Dean looked over; Sam was staring openly at him.

"Thanks." He racked up another game. Thought about another beer. Sneaked a glance at Sam and reconsidered.

"Want to play?"

* * *

He was going to hell, Dean decided. Straight to hell, no stopping or turning, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars, check your soul at the door. And he was losing the fucking game, which was just not fair. Eternal damnation he could face, but taking a dive because he couldn't stop staring at Sam's ass? That was just embarrassing.

They'd been playing for about an hour. Dean had taken the first game, easy, because Sam was rusty. Then Sam got his eye back and took the second game, though it was a close one. And now he was grinning wide and open and proceeding to kick Dean's ass all around the table, and he had the nerve to look pleased with himself about it. Dean wondered how the smug little shit had lived this long.

 _Because you knocked down anyone who ever looked at him wrong_. Stupid, that. He wouldn't bother in future. Anyone who could hustle Dean the way Sam was hustling him deserved to look out for himself. And Sam wasn't even bothering to hide it; he was just decimating Dean all over, right down to the eight-ball on a lonely expanse of green felt, the cue ball an infuriating five inches away.

"Eight-ball, corner pocket," Sam announced, like he was the Babe Ruth of pool players. Dean rolled his eyes and leaned on his cue, heaving a disgusted sigh. Sam grinned over his shoulder at him and leaned in to take the shot.

 _Snick._ The ball fell home, the cue ball following after, and Sam put down his cue and stretched his arms overhead, groaning in satisfaction. Dean watched his shirts ride up at the waist, catching a hint of bare skin before he tore his eyes away. He cleared his throat and took another swallow of beer, his fourth.

"Not bad," he allowed finally. He figured he could own up to that. He'd played his ass off, and Sam had handed it to him on a platter. A belated sense of pride welled up in him.

Sam's grin softened into a smile, and he hoisted himself the half-step up onto the table.

"Thanks."

Dean nodded, falling silent again, staring at the floor. He could feel the air tingling, could almost count the particles of matter filling the space between them.

"Dean?"

"What?"

"What's up with you?"

He looked up, startled. Sam was looking at him in genuine concern, his eyes wide, inviting confidence. It was the first time Dean had seen that look on Sam's face since ... well, ever.

"Nothing. I'm fine." He straightened up and went toward the bar for another beer, collecting Sam's empty bottle on the way. "Want another beer?"

"Dean, wait." Sam grabbed his shoulder as he went by, pulling him up short. "You're acting really weird tonight. What's going on?"

"Nothing, I said. I'm just pissed that we're stuck here overnight." Dean moved away, but Sam's hand tightened, not quite a warning.

"No, you're not. You're nervous about something. I can tell." Sam's voice was wondering. "What is it?"

"Let go, Sammy," he snapped, wrenching away. Sam's hand dropped away, but his eyes were fixed on Dean's face, holding him in place.

"Me?" Sam searched his face. "I'm making you nervous? Why, Dean?"

Fucking Sam and his fucking psychic powers. Dean stepped back again, trying to regain his balance.

"I'm afraid you'll get hungry and run out of food and eat me for a midnight snack," he said. "Here's a tip: go for the peanuts instead, okay? Now do you want another beer or not?"

"No."

"Whatever. More for me."

He walked carefully behind the bar, ignoring the slight unsteadiness in his step, because he wasn't a lightweight but even so, four beers on a long-empty stomach was bound to have some effect. He felt Sam's gaze on him and his mouth twisted.

"Stop watching me."

"Why?" Sam looked him over from head to foot when he came back. "You watch me all the time."

Dean stopped for the barest instant. _Fuck_.

"I do not."

"Do too."

"Do not."

"Do. Too." And Sam walked over to him, took the longneck from his suddenly nerveless fingers. "It's okay, though," he added, looking Dean straight in the eye. "I don't mind."

He raised the beer to his lips and drank, and Dean tried not to watch. But Sam was right there in his space, and his throat was working smoothly as he swallowed, and Dean couldn't _not_ watch as his little brother chugged the entire bottle without pausing for breath.

Looked like he learned some useful things in college after all.

"That was mine," he protested, but there was no bite to it and Sam knew it. His eyes were still on Dean, his mouth curving just enough to make Dean want to kiss him. Or punch him. Maybe both. He licked his own lips in reflex and then dragged his eyes away for what felt like the hundredth time that night.

"I'll share it with you, if you want."

Dean's heart stuttered in his chest. He looked up; Sam was still watching him, the bottle dangling from his fingers. He reached over, leaning into Dean's space, and put it on a table behind them, his hand brushing Dean's shoulder when he pulled back. His breath was warm and smelled of beer, and he still didn't look away.

"Fuck it," Dean said, and yanked him in.

Sam came as if Dean were a magnet, and then they were kissing as deep as Dean had ever kissed anyone, Sam big and warm and moving against him, twining himself around Dean's body. Dean tasted beer and the cinnamon gum Sam chewed sometimes, the taste sharp and sour and familiar, and this was all utterly new, weird and perfect and strong and fragile as the sheerest glass. Dean held on and kissed Sam back, and thought he'd be happy to die right here.

Then Sam walked them backward three steps to the pool table, still kissing, and Dean added 'hard' to his list of adjectives. This was – they were – hard. _Sam_ was hard against him, legs wide apart to let Dean stand between, his cock a point of heat pushing into Dean's belly. He swallowed a moan, one hand going down to feel, and Sam jerked when he slid his hand under the waistband of his shorts. Dean smiled against his mouth.

"Shut up," Sam breathed, breaking the kiss, sliding his lips down to mouth at Dean's throat. "Not a fucking word, Dean."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Dean murmured, then shoved his hand right down and cupped Sam's cock, and huffed a laugh when Sam cried out and bucked into his palm. He was hot to the touch, alive and pulsing, slick with pre-come and the beginnings of sweat. Dean squeezed and swiped his thumb over the head, wanting to taste so bad his mouth watered.

"What do you want?" he said in Sam's ear. He kissed the soft skin beneath, simply because it was there. "Whatever you want, Sam."

Sam shuddered and pulled back to look at him, eyes dark and hazy with need.

"Fuck me."

Dean surged forward, kissing Sam deep and wet, claiming ownership with tongue and teeth. Sam gave it all back breath for breath, and Dean knew that if he lived through this, he'd be ruined for anyone else. But that wasn't news. He'd been ruined for anyone else since the first time little Sammy smiled at him.

He let go of Sam's cock to work on undoing his jeans, still kissing him because he couldn't stop. Sam's hands were restless, roaming under his shirt, in his hair, dipping inside his own jeans to palm the curves of his ass. Dean almost ripped Sam's jeans open in his haste, needing something to focus on other than those long, clever fingers so close to ... just a little bit further ...

Sam toed his boots off and pushed his jeans and shorts down his hips, letting Dean pull them off the rest of the way. He hoisted himself on top of the pool table, Dean still between his spread thighs.

"How do you—" Dean started to say, but stopped when Sam reached over his head and pulled his shirts off all at once, sinking back to lie full-length on the table like all his bones had melted.

"Like this." Sam bent one leg to the side in invitation. "Hurry."

Dean stopped moving, stopped breathing for a moment. His baby brother was spread out naked on a pool table, begging to be fucked, his cock hard and flushed and crying out for Dean's mouth on it. If he did this, there'd be hell to pay someday.

Like that'd stop him. He already had a running tab.

He didn't remember getting his clothes off, or retrieving the slick from the front pocket of his jeans (always there, because he was a Winchester and thus prepared for anything, never mind Sam laughing and calling him a manwhore). The minutes seemed to melt into each other until they stopped altogether, strung out on a wire, Sam stretched across a field of green felt with Dean leaning over him, fingers slick, hovering, rubbing lightly at the dark pink pucker of his ass.

Sam was quivering beneath him, gripping the far side of the table in both hands, his heels resting on either side of Dean's hips, knees bent as far as they would go.

"If you're waiting for an invitation," he said, gasping, "this would be it."

Dean grinned down at him and drove two fingers in.

Sam's hips came up sharply, his body giving way as Dean stroked inside. Smooth and tight, and so _warm_ ; he curled his fingers, pressed in just a bit and felt Sam jerk in shock.

"Do that again," Sam ordered, his voice hoarse. Dean obeyed, pressing harder, rubbing lightly with his fingertips, and Sam ... Sam fucking _keened_ and bowed right up off the table.

"Having fun?" Dean asked, and got a half-wild grin in reply.

"If you don't fuck me in the next thirty seconds," Sam gasped, "I'm going to come all over your face. Your choice." He brought one hand down to stroke his cock as he spoke, his eyes fixed on Dean, his teeth biting down on his lower lip until it turned a bloodless white.

Dean shuddered and pulled his fingers out, wordlessly moving in and taking hold of Sam's thighs for leverage. Sam tilted his hips up, legs straining wide, begging Dean for it with every line of his body.

"Put it in me, Dean," Sam whispered. "I want you to."

Dean hesitated; broke; plunged deep. He didn't stop this time: the whole world did.

" _Jesus_ ," Dean moaned, teeth clenched against pleasure so sharp he felt like screaming. "Sammy ..."

"There could not possibly be," Sam panted, "a worse moment to call me that." He hooked his legs around Dean's back and smiled. "Do I look like a chubby twelve-year-old to you?"

"You look like ..." _A hooker. An angel. My brother._ "... a porn star," Dean managed. "A really fucking good one, Sam. Fuck." He ran a hand up Sam's sweat-slick chest, fingering a nipple, coming back down to fondle his cock back to full hardness. "You could make a fortune online."

"Thought about it." Sam shifted closer, bringing Dean deeper inside him. "Easier than credit card fraud. Pays better, too."

"You _thought_ about ..." Dean choked, his rhythm faltering, not sure whether to be pissed or shocked or turned on. Sam locked his ankles tight, his eyes bright and wicked.

"Wouldn't be very good at it, I don't think," he said. "You're not fucking me hard enough, so I must be doing something wrong."

The challenge hit Dean square in the face; he let a smile curl over his mouth in reply, and then he was leaning over Sam and pulling him up by the shoulders for a dirty tonguefuck of a kiss, shoving him back down, sliding his hands around and down to palm Sam's ass as he began to thrust. Hard, deep strokes, like Sam was his own hand, like the bass lines of his five favourite songs were thrumming through his body. Sam wasn't grinning now; he was moaning and jerking his hips and fucking his fist on Dean's counterstroke, his naked body gleaming with sweat as he strained and fought and bucked. Dean gritted his teeth and held on, fighting not to come, trying to make this last as long as he damn well could. Sam was tight and smooth around his cock, taking him in deep, clinging when he pulled back to thrust again. Dean felt ... he felt ... _welcome_. Like he belonged. Like he was exactly where Sam wanted him.

That was enough to be his undoing. He panted a disjointed warning at Sam, half apology, half curse, and Sam began to strip his cock double-time, his head thrown back to expose his throat. Dean wanted to bite him there, but he couldn't reach, he couldn't manage, and then he couldn't do anything at all because Sam's hips hitched under him and pushed him over the edge of orgasm, and he couldn't do anything but shake and spurt and moan. Sam followed him a few seconds later, and Dean nearly did catch a faceful of come as Sam's hand fell away from his cock. He tried to laugh, found he didn't have the breath for it, and collapsed facedown on Sam's belly, chest heaving, body sated, mind utterly clear.

Minutes passed in silence, inside and out. Snow was banking up against the windows outside, a white glow reflecting into the room. Dean nuzzled against Sam's stomach and thought about moving. Just as an abstract idea. He put no faith in the notion that he'd ever be able to stand again.

"I hate you," Sam groaned. "My thighs are killing me." He unlocked his ankles; his legs slid down and away from Dean's back, dangling limply over the edge of the table. "I'll never walk again."

"Stop your bitching." Dean shuffled upright just to prove that he could. "You asked for it, remember?"

"You're not supposed to listen to me," Sam said, wincing as he sat up. "I'm the youngest."

"Okay, next time I'll say no and go watch TV." Dean grinned as Sam's head snapped up, eyes flashing. "Maybe some porn."

"Maybe there won't be a next time."

Dean shrugged, ignoring the flare of panic that hit him. "Your loss, dude."

"Yours too."

Stalemate. Sam leaned back on his elbows, eyebrow raised. Dean met his gaze and held it, a dozen replies on his tongue, thoughts of stopping, of carrying on, of pretending it never happened running through his mind.

"Better treat you right, then," he said at last.

Sam's smile was brilliant. "Damn fucking straight."

Dean blinked at the sight, his cock trying valiantly to get interested again. He grinned at the thought and leaned back in for one more kiss, Sam's mouth opening easily to let him in. It already felt right, normal, natural. Dean wished for a bed to sprawl in; he wanted to tie Sam's hands to the headboard and tease the fuck out of him for a while.

"Dude, this felt is ruined," Sam said when they surfaced for air, inspecting the mess between his legs. "We're going to have to replace the whole damn tabletop."

"Fuck." Dean scowled. "No more pool tables, man. We can't afford it."

"Extenuating circumstances," Sam pointed out. "It was worth it, right?"

"I ... guess." Dean's voice broke. He flushed when Sam smiled crookedly at him. "Shut up, man."

"Not saying anything."

"Good."

"Right."

"Okay."

"... so, how about the bar, then?"

He eyed it. It was a good height; if he was standing, with Sam behind—

"Uh," he said, his tongue going stupid in his mouth. Lust flared again, and Sam, the bastard – he just stood there and knew it and smiled.

"Your turn," Sam said softly. "Now."

Downtime, Dean reflected, really wasn't all that bad. There were upsides, if you looked hard enough.

END


End file.
